Scandals at the Party of Gold
by aph.wank
Summary: A short look into one of Jay Gatsby's famous parties by a man that is not all too fond of Mr. Gatsby, set out to tarnish his golden reputation. Troubled by an even more troubling past, Kyler Moll finally attends for the first and the last time at West Egg.


Scandals at the Party of Gold

The garden looked aflame in multi-coloured fire and sparks, the flowers on the hedges lighting up like candles. Then, upon second look, it was only the light reflecting off the freshly watered plants, making one feel slightly disappointed that it was nothing more than tricks of the light. This was how Kyler Moll saw his surroundings when he first stepped foot inside the extravagant party. He would call this party, "The party of the century," even though the party was something that occurred at West Egg every weekend in Long Island. Moll, however, did not have the luxury to return time and time again, much like other guests did.

Moll was the type of man that left others speechless when he spoke, his elegant and sophisticated words baffling everyone who had the pleasure to even spot the man at casual affairs. He grew up in the slums of New York, his mother working in the factories, her lungs forever damaged by smoke and pollution. And his father, left them on the first train out of New York when Moll was born, leaving them nearly homeless and without a penny to their name. Many called the story of how Moll built his name, a story of daring, many people taking great inspiration from the tale even after the first few words he uttered. Though, it wasn't true. It was truth when he grew up in the slums of New York, but his mother never lifted a finger in the ways of work. His father was around only until he left for war, leaving Moll with his drunken mother, sending Moll to work at the mere age of 14. Moll was a troubled boy, and he hated his mother and in his eyes, his father was already dead to him before he even lost his life on the battlefields of war. If you saw Moll, he would tell you his limp on his left leg was an injury in the mountain climbing in the Alps, and you would believe him. But, what those fools didn't guess, or rather even fathom, was that in a drunken rage, his father had pushed him down the stairs in their small apartment for smudging his father's work boots. He was in a cast for nearly a year, his leg broken in five different places and he suffered from infection. His mother nor his father thought to take him to a hospital for nearly three days. But by those three days, his leg was severely discoloured and he would shout out in a very intense pain at the slightest movement. Many more stories, much more gory and inappropriate than this one explained Moll's hatred for his father more effectively. Stories Moll can't believe himself.

To a common man, Moll was a hero, taking care of his mother's failing lungs until she died when she was 35. From cigarettes, but he let them believe it was the smoke from the machines at the factories. He got a scholarship to Yale, burying himself in his work and participated in the chess club, this part was true. He was still tragically poor, skipping meals and buying used textbooks with what money he did have as a bagger at a local grocery store. He made by, but it wasn't until his senior year at Yale, when he got into the business of trade on the black market. This, he usually left out in his elaborate story of lies. He specialized in human trafficking and also the selling of body parts from China to whatever sicko was willing and ready to pay his inflated prices. He had seen many deaths in the slums of New York, near his house that it hardly affected him any longer. It was a quick way for money, promising himself that he would never be lacking again. He covers his secret trades when he bought the most famous metal company of the time and the CEO of the company that owned the "Valley of Ashes". It was a good cover, he thought. He was favoured by the rich and a role model for the poor.

When he heard of this grandiose party that went on in the Summers in Long Island, it was only natural that he attend, bringing it upon himself to drive to West Egg. He heard many stories about the host, not even catching his name but knew multiple versions. He scoffed to himself, what kind of man can't keep his story straight. He wondered if the host was like he, dark past and only looking for a bright future full of gold. And gold is what he saw at the party. The size of the mansion rivaled his own, and in that, he respected his host but he still felt superior. The sheer amount of people attending was shocking, but in the same instant, expected. Moll was unaffected by the masses, speaking only with those to dare talk to him first and sipping at an endless finger bowl of bourbon. He had to commend the host once more, the amount of drink and food never left you unsatisfied. Every room inside the mansion was open to the public, unless being used by the guests themselves for scandalous activities that alcohol pushed them to do. Moll had laughed, entertained by the endless amounts of husbands losing track of their wives who had run off with other men in the maze of the house.

He had spotted one of his trade partners who had traveled all the way from China and stopped in conversation at the sight of the short man. He looked as if the man was looking around, looking specifically for him. He sighed and walked away, leaving a young man mid-sentence towards the unwelcome man.

"Kiku, what a pleasant surprise? What brings you all the way to Long Island?" he asked tightly, forcing his words to be kind and formal, his smile twitching from strain.

"The surprise, Kyler-"

"Moll. I go by my last name if you remember? I highly doubt our acquaintance is pushing friendly enough to call me by my first name," he corrected, his voice leaking irritation. He really hated Kiku too, but he was one of his highest bidder on a human male liver at the time, being sold for $18,000.

Kiku laughed lightly, dismissing Moll's words and waved it off with a swift wave of his hand. "I apologize. But to the matter at hand, Mr. _Moll_. The little trade we have, I have come to pick it up," he said casually, his voice fighting with the music to be heard as he leaned against the banister of the grand stairs. I looked at him, my mind having trouble believing what came out of the man's mouth. In public nonetheless. I grabbed his elbow firmly, dragging him up the red carpeted stairs and inside the mansion to look for a room that is not occupied by people lacking clothes to take care of this matter. He wisely kept quiet as Moll through the vast dining hall in his search. The table held gold silverware and other expensive china and he had to admit to himself, once more, that this Gatsby character wasn't too bad. As he looked around, he noticed that quite a few things were gold, even in the smallest areas there were flecks of Gold and he couldn't help by wanting to turn that gold to rust.

Moll halted in his tracks at his own thoughts. He never directly involved himself in his business, he could have blood on his hands figuratively nor literally. Kiku was proving to be a danger, ambushing him in a crowded party, and God only knows who else would have heard if he spoke loud enough. The situation had to be remedied immediately.

Moll was always at ease, having a certain calmness around him that would almost scream psychopath if he wasn't careful enough. He had to be discrete and he had to plan this very carefully. Moll's had begun to sweat against Kikus elbow when he finally found an open bathroom on the fourth floor.

"Do you come to America alone, Kiku?" he asked, approaching the bathroom slowly, his voice soothing.

"Hai, the only person who is even aware of my departure was my daughter, but she is only 13 and believes it's for business. It is, I do suppose," he chuckled to himself but Moll had stopped listening, deciding if he would leave a child orphaned. As he analyzed the situation, her father was a perverted clod and she would be better off.

By then, the two men had reached the bathroom, also covered in gold. Tauntingly, Moll thought and he started to hate Gatsby, whoever the man was. Who was he to have this amount of gold, more than Moll himself. He shut the door behind them with a loud click, resonating throughout the mansion.

When Moll left the party that night, earlier than planned and slightly more drunk than he wanted to be, he felt a certain glow about him. He scoffed at a painting of his host, smugness filling him that he was able to turn his gold, into rust.


End file.
